


Curly One

by demigirl17



Series: Little one series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, MasterLestrade, PadawanSherlock, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-26 18:57:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3861010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demigirl17/pseuds/demigirl17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prequel to Little One, featuring Lestrade and Sherlock, strongly advised to read Little One first. Sherlock grows up under Lestrade's care, however, it is not a road that inspires many admires. Because of Sherlock's connections to the Sith it is ill advised that Lestrade take him as his own. Could be dangerous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He was so small.

Having an apprentice was never on his agenda, it had barely even crossed his mind. There was a time once when he thought maybe a child would be nice, someone to follow after him and learn from him. But in his heart he knew there were far better masters than he in temple. The Jedi's future would thrive far more if he weren't one of the selected few to guide it.

Sherlock had fallen asleep in the chair. He hadn't let Lestrade bathe him and had insisted it could be done himself. It had taken all of two minutes and forty three seconds. The boy had come rushing out, dressed in his new padawan's uniform and shivered with cold. He hadn't realized he would be allowed a long, warm bath. Lestrade should have bathed the child himself.

Mistake number two at this point.

Sherlock had been given to him only that morning, they were still making each other's acquaintance. Lestrade drummed his fingers anxiously on the arm rests of the sofa, he centered his gaze on his unfurnished mantel piece. There were some masters who proudly displayed relics, saber pieces, Qui Gon was particular to plants, some had their padawan's achievements. Lestrade found none of them worthy, his fingers moved slowly to his pocket.

Perhaps…

He strode to the mantel piece and lay Sherlock's reed pipes in the center. The first of many priceless collections Sherlock would deem worthy enough to go on the mantel. Lestrade smiled as he traced the reed pipes delicately.

"Master?" a childish voice said behind him. "Will you be retiring soon?"

So formal for someone so young.

Lestrade turned slowly, in time to see Sherlock slide out of his chair and clasp his hands together behind his back. The knight frowned. "No, Curly. I am not yet tired," he said carefully.

Sherlock's dark head dipped lower, a flicker of annoyance shifted in the Force. Lestrade quirked an eyebrow as the boy nodded, but did not move. Why would Lestrade's alertness cause the child-?

Ah.

"Would you like to retire for the evening, Sherlock?" Lestrade chuckled softly.

He was given a dubious glare. "I have to wait for you," he said shortly.

Amused by such logic Lestrade tilted his head. "Why?"

It was the first time his padawan visibly floundered before him. Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath. "You are my master," Sherlock explained carefully.

"Does this mean I am to dictate when you sleep?" Lestrade asked gently.

His new padawan nodded, another twist of annoyance shot through the Force. This boy would be a handful.

"Well then," Lestrade stroked his chin mockingly, "Padawan Holmes, from now on whenever you feel tired or have the desire to sleep, you will do so. Promptly and without need of my consent, unless the situation is dire."

His protégé was undeniably cute when at a loss for words. Lestrade smirked and then lightly, very lightly said, "You may go to bed, Sherlock."

It nearly killed him to see how close to tears the little boy was. Sherlock stood with his back ramrod straight, his eyes watering so profusely it must have bleared his vision. Sherlock wiped at them with embarrassment. "Thank you, Master."

Sherlock scrambled back to his place in the chair and curled into a small ball. His master frowned at the sight. Surely it wasn't comfortable? Yet the lad hadn't even asked where his room was, nor had he asked for a blanket. Lestrade very gently nudged him with the Force until those icy blue eyes turned to him.

"Would you like to go to your room, little one," he prompted gently.

He was completely unprepared for the sheer look of terror he received. Sherlock curled even tighter inwardly, as if trying to shield his vital areas. "But I was being good!" the boy all but shouted. "I didn't mean to fall asleep before, you could have woken me up! I was trying to be good!"

Alarmed Lestrade stepped towards Sherlock in order to soothe him, but the child only quailed harder. His protests became quieter and less aggressive as Lestrade knelt in front of him, Sherlock shook his head. "I was being really good," he whispered.

"Of course you were," Lestrade said confused. "You've done nothing wrong, Sherlock. You said you were tired?"

"You said I could say it!" Sherlock screamed.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said firmly, his padawan stilled. "Come here." He pulled the child into his arms before he could protest. Sherlock was completely rigid as Lestrade carried him into the small padawan's quarters. Carefully, he set Sherlock on the bed and stepped back. Sherlock sniffled.

"You said I could sleep," he whined.

"On your bed, in your room," Lestrade said gently. "Under blankets to keep you warm, and under my protection. No one's going to hurt you here, I promise you."

Sherlock looked curious. "Bed?"

It was Lestrade's turn to flounder. "You know, a bed. The squishy thing you're sitting on."

Sherlock bounced a bit experimentally. "But…"

Lestrade sat next to him carefully. "But?"

"It's not allowed," Sherlock said quietly. "My people…bastards can't have beds."

Lestrade lifted his arm experimentally and waited until Sherlock scooted closer to him. Lestrade refrained from pulling the boy in closer. "You are a Jedi now, Sherlock. We are your people. You may always sleep in a bed if you are tired."

"But what if you're not home?" Sherlock asked worriedly.

Lestrade's heart nearly broke at the little boy's confusion. No longer able to control it, he hoisted Sherlock into his arms and let the child arrange himself until he was comfortable. Lestrade pressed a firm kiss into the dark locks. "When you are hungry you will eat. When you are tired you will sleep. No one will tell you differently, I promise you."

Sherlock was nuzzling him carefully. "It won't last," he said tiredly.

Lestrade rocked the child instinctively, until Sherlock was once again asleep in his arms. The small head was tucked delicately under his chin, soft curls tickled his nose softly. How could anyone harm something so small? Sherlock, at one point, must have been trusting and adoring. How could someone abuse that?

Lestrade arranged Sherlock in his arms and fell into a deep sleep with the boy held close.

oOo

He awoke only one of Sherlock's knobby knees struck him in the stomach.

Groaning softly he shifted slightly to give his new companion more room, but was surprised when a finger poked him carefully on the chest. Startled he opened his eyes to find a sharp, icy gaze on him, not a cruel gaze, but almost enquiring. Lestrade pushed himself up on his elbow to look down at the boy. Sherlock trembled a bit beneath him.

"You alright, kid?" he asked softly.

"I'm…" his voice trailed off slowly. Lestrade gently carded a hand through his soft curls and lightly tugged, hoping to encourage Sherlock to speak openly. "Hungry," the boy murmured.

Lestrade sighed and collapsed heavily back onto the pillows, peeking sideways at Sherlock through the open space under his arm. "I suppose I can manage breakfast for us then."

Using the flat of his palms, he pushed himself out of bed and padded into the kitchen. Luckily for both of them, his cupboards had been restocked two nights previous. Lestrade maneuvered through the different pantries Molly had stocked for him, glancing around from something a child may like to eat. Sherlock cleared his throat lightly.

"Master?" he asked quietly.

Lestrade turned to the soft voice with a gentle smile, Sherlock flushed a deep scarlet at the kind gesture. Lestrade took some sweetened nectar juice from the fridge and poured it into a cup for his new padawan. Stunned Sherlock stared at the bright green liquid in his hands.

"What makes it so green?" he inquired immediately. "Is the water dyed? Is it a fungus?"

"It's juice, young one," Lestrade said curiously. He was given a dubious glance as Sherlock sniffed the contents. Fumbling a bit, Lestrade attempted to explain the purpose of juice. "You know, sugar. It tastes nice?"

Sherlock looked slightly tickled. "I've never had anything but water before," he said as he took a small sip. His small eyes widened in delight at the sweetened drink, and he gulped swiftly. Lestrade took out the pitcher to pour his new padawan more, Sherlock beamed.

Lestrade listened to the noisy slurps of Sherlock's happy drinking and set to frying several eggs, bacon, and put some of the sticky pastries in the oven. It wasn't long before his quarters smelt like a favored diner, Sherlock's eyes widened a bit as he hovered at Lestrade's elbow. The knight lifted the boy and set him on the counter so Sherlock could watch the progression of the food. The boy's stomach growled fiercely.

Lestrade set an egg, a side of meat, and a pastry on a plate and placed it gently in Sherlock's lap. They would have to invest in a table to sit around, but for now Sherlock stayed on the counter and Lestrade stayed at his side. The knight fixed his own plate: three eggs, four sides of meat, and two pastries. He leant lazily next to Sherlock, preparing to devour his own plate. Sherlock seemed to be waiting for something.

"Eat, Curly," Lestrade said lightly. "And you will tell me if you want more, yes?"

"You must start first, Master," Sherlock explained carefully. "I will eat when you are finished."

"Nonsense," Lestrade barked, tearing into his first strip of meat. "It will be cold by then."

Sherlock blushed. "It isn't proper," he muttered.

Lestrade belched in response and held up one of his own pastry to the boy's lips. Nervously, as though Lestrade would take it away at the last minute, Sherlock took a small bite. Glee spread over the boy's face and effectively warmed the master's heart. Lestrade kissed his temple lightly and smirked. "Now eat your own," he winked, "this one's mine."

It was all the prompting Sherlock needed, and he ate with the appetite of a thousand padawans. Lestrade happily refilled his learner's plate when asked and considered it a great improvement over Sherlock's little nibbling of food. Sherlock managed to slip back into sleep after his meal as his master began working on the dishes. The boy lay spread out over the sofa, limbs inelegantly tangled beneath Lestrade's robe as he snored softly.

At last the boy looked completely at ease.

Lestrade felt a growing sense of pride in himself as he completed the dishes, perhaps he wouldn't fail at this after all. Eventually a routine would need to be set, but for now Sherlock would be allowed to eat and take rest whenever he desired. Lestrade had a bad feeling he would be able to deny the padawan nothing as he grew up.

There was a harsh wrapping at his door that caused Sherlock to stir in his slumber, but thankfully the little boy remained asleep. Lestrade slid his hand over the control panel and allowed the door to spring open. A hand wrenched him by his collar from his home and pulled him into the hallway. Lestrade was dragged, none to gracefully, away from his door.

"Master," Lestrade hissed as his captor pulled him into a different living quarters, Lestrade's former home. He was shoved roughly onto a pure white sofa that had been the bane of his existence as a boy as it was often his place of punishment. And one time he had spilled a purple nectar over it and had been without supper for a week.

His master sat across from in a flourish of robes and ran a hand through his thinning grey hair. Master Chief. The other Jedi literally referred to his master by two alpha titles to convey his power. Lestrade wrung his hands out before him, as nervous as he had been as a child. His master leaned forward once he managed to gather his bearings.

"You will take the wretched thing back," he spat at once.

Lestrade nearly snarled. "Kriff you," the knight snapped back one without any thought. He rose before his mind could register his actions. He found himself, surprisingly, unaffected by his former master's opinion and had very little desire to hear more. Sherlock was going nowhere, this made conversation with his master fruitless. The older man rose making them nose to nose with each other.

"You're a bloody idiot, Lestrade," the revered elder growled, taking Lestrade by the collar as though he were eleven years old once more and in need of discipline. "A Sith? A Sith to carry on my lineage? My legacy? Correct this at once!" Lestrade shoved away the old man's restraining hand and was followed into the hallway. "Don't you dare turn your back on me, young man. Apprentice!"

Lestrade spun on his heel, furious at his master's words. His attempts to push away the rage and release it into the living Force were failing miserably. "Sherlock is my padawan. Not you, not the council, not the Sith master himself, will take this child away from unless he willingly consents to it." Lestrade shook with his lividness. How dare his master attempt to lecture him. How dare the older man try to say anything about having a padawan when the man had barely raised Lestrade at all. "Yoda approves," Lestrade hissed, managing to squeeze in a final insult before slamming the door in the older man's face.

"'Aster?" Sherlock slurred as he sat up uneasily. Lestrade's face softened at once as Sherlock reached for him blindly.

As the knight took the boy carefully in his arms, he swore to the living Force that only death would separate him from his padawan.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was refusing to speak with anyone but his master.

Lestrade had made many attempts to coax the child into speaking with some of his friends, but Sherlock simply paled and tried to curl into himself. Once Qui Gon had visited them in their home, and Sherlock simply wiggled into Lestrade's side on the sofa whilst refusing to speak. Lestrade attempted to chide him for being rude to a cherished friend, but it only made the boy panic and cry. Qui Gon, ever the patient soul, smiled good naturedly and left with a polite bow.

Molly was the first one to succeed in getting Sherlock to speak. The first time she visited she had walked in on Sherlock unexpectedly and was shocked when the padawan ran into Lestrade's arms. It was almost comical to watch her reaction as Lestrade made soft shushing noises to soothe Sherlock.

At first her face contorted in obvious shock to see Lestrade in a position of responsibility, and then it softened as she realized he was succeeding. Unlike Qui Gon, she did not leave after Sherlock burst into tears when Lestrade left the room. Instead, sensing that Sherlock was already beginning to take after his master, she showed him the skull she was currently delivering to Master Maser. Sherlock's sobs stopped at once.

Often whenever she was delivering a specimen to her former master it was brought to Lestrade for inspection. Such things had fascinated him since boyhood, and it seemed the same went for Sherlock.

The padawan took the skull in his hands and sat perfectly still next to Molly. He turned it over in his hands as Molly explained it was from an unfortunate Iktotchi who had his head bashed in. Lestrade flinched at the gory story, but Sherlock beamed almost wickedly and nodded.

"He was stabbed in the nose too, just here," Sherlock pointed out hurriedly, jabbing one of his scrawny fingers into the nostril cavity.

Without making a scene at the padawan's sudden and happy speech, Molly smiled. "Not many padawan's your age would notice that, which one do you think killed him?"

"Blow to the head," Sherlock said easily. "The stab to the nose made him bend over, and that's why the blows on the back. Also that's big dent, would have killed him in a second."

Molly beamed, and Lestrade groaned.

At the very least, his child was happy.

And that was all that mattered.

oOo

Lestrade lay with Sherlock on his chest.

Both Jedi's hearts were pounding in fear and fury. Lestrade cradled Sherlock closely, though even in his sleep Sherlock growled at him. Shamelessly Lestrade touched the Force and used it to persuade Sherlock deeper into slumber.

Sherlock had shown the knight his back properly for the first time, Lestrade still had tears on his cheeks. It was a horrible mess of infection, welts, and open wounds. It was no wonder Sherlock had been refusing to bathe every night or lay on his back at bed time, the child must have been in horrible pain.

After making sure Sherlock was deeply, deeply asleep, Lestrade lay him in his own bed carefully. He tucked the covers around the small boy, sealing in the warmth around him before running with all his might to the healers bay. Without asking permission, he began gathering the supplies needed and rushed back before Sherlock was aware he had gone. He roused the sleeping padawan gently.

"Sherlock," he said softly, stroking a soft hand through the boy's hair. "Will you allow me to bind your back, little one? It will help it heal."

"Just you," Sherlock demanded back. Demanded, good, he wasn't fearful of Lestrade.

"Roll on to your stomach then," Lestrade instructed carefully.

Lestrade nearly started to weep again. Someone had done that, willingly beat a child, willingly left scars over Sherlock's back, there were such monsters in the world. Lestrade continued his light stroking of Sherlock's hair as his other hand applied medicine as cautiously as possible. He laid gauze over the now clean wounds and wrapped Sherlock carefully in bandages. The padawan crawled into his lap when he had finished.

"I'm okay," the padawan said carefully. "Don't cry, Master. You're not supposed to cry."

Lestrade chuckled wetly. "Forgive me, Curly."

"You look ridiculous, don't cry," his padawan said shortly.

It caused the young man to snort with laughter and pull his bratling in tighter. "I will stop if it embarrasses you, my padawan."

"It does," Sherlock said frankly. "You have no reason to cry."

No reason? No reason! The little one's back was in shambles, it would like scar and pain him the rest of his life, which Force wiling would be a long one. Still at only ten to be exposed to such hardships… Lestrade pulled his padawan closer.

Sherlock hesitated. "Forgive me, Master. Moriarty often said such things to me when I cried."

"Curly," Lestrade said gently, "I will need to keep this closely monitored. Your bandages will need to be changed twice daily, and I shall need to apply ointment every time they are changed. You will also need to take medicine with morning tea."

"I," Sherlock began, sounding worried, "I don't think I like medicine."

"Tough," Lestrade said firmly. Then, thinking of the kind of medicine the poor boy had endured, changed his tactics. "It will not hurt, I promise you."

He was given a dubious look, but at last Sherlock settled himself in the knight's arms and went to sleep.

Lestrade found he couldn't bring himself to rest at all that night.

oOo

Sherlock had left for his classes, fussy and cross about sitting in the hard desk chairs with his "itchy" bandages.

Lestrade had been left to himself for the first time in two weeks. It was a nice change, a quiet one to be more honest. He found himself missing his padawan at times throughout the day when Sherlock would have normally taken lunch with him or questioned him on old Jedi stories. Sherlock was frightened about making friends, but Lestrade told him to think of it as an experiment and the boy seemed more eager.

Besides, Lestrade had a meeting with his former master and did not wish for Sherlock to be present during that time. The old man had agreed to be civil while discussing the new padawan's arrangements, and Lestrade had been forced by Yoda to at least hear him out.

If anyone but Yoda had asked (demanded) he would have laughed in their face.

Lestrade wearily turned when heard the door hiss open. His master strolled in with his usual air of superiority that had often made Lestrade's insecurities bloom in his youth. The knight had never had the confidence his master had seemed to display.

"Master," the young man bowed in greeting.

"Apprentice," his master said stiffly.

Stars, it was like nails on a chalk board to hear that word fall from his lips. Lestrade motioned for the master to sit anywhere he pleased while the younger man sorted tea. There was a loud squeak as the springs of the sofa yielded to the master's weight. Lestrade sighed inwardly.

"Where is the boy?" the master asked at last.

"At his morning class," Lestrade said stiffly.

"You have not given him up then?"

Lestrade grit his teeth together. "Master," he said warningly.

"Is this revenge for your childhood? You think this is a way to get back at me for leaving you behind so often? You have already claimed Yoda as your master in front of my peers, why must you now insult me further?"

The cup in the knight's hand shattered, spraying glass and tea across the floor. A sharp piece managed to slice deeply into his wrist, but it went unnoticed.

"If you would leave me be, if you would have let me transfer under Yoda's guardianship, I still would have taken Sherlock as my padawan. It is an insult to no one, it is not revenge for anything. He is a frightened little boy, and I will protect him at all costs," Lestrade said heatedly. "Do not forget I defied Yoda as well when the council debated on where to send the boy."

"Apprentice," the master's voice cracked like a whip. He had never been overly abusive, never physically harmed Lestrade more than a smack across the arse or a bruised cheek. But the emotional abuse that had been dealt at the old man's hand made Lestrade flinch at the tone.

 _Foolish_ , he told himself angrily, _Sherlock faced whips and burns, and I flinch because of a scolding_.

"Get out," Lestrade said coldly. "If you will not listen to me-"

"You forget, I have a right to this boy," the master said menacingly. "Yoda himself knows it, why do think he is eager for you to make your amends with me. If I make a fuss to the council about your lack of teaching skills, you will be evaluated. And the padawan will stay in my care until you are deemed worthy."

It felt as though the floor shifted beneath him.

"I…" Lestrade hadn't known. Hadn't realized that a former master had so much control over an ex-apprentice's future even still. He sat down quite suddenly in his chair, feeling sickness wash over him.

"Will do as you are told," the master hissed. "If I cannot make you abandon this padawan, I will see to it he is raised properly. Starting with his light saber training, we will-"

"I'm taking Sherlock to Naboo," Lestrade snapped. "I want to raise him there, where I can keep a close eye on his development."

"The council will not let you take that little Sith anywhere. Not yet anyways, he is a liability as of now."

"I will be speaking to the council," Lestrade said angrily.

The master leaned forward in his seat.

"I look forward to it."

oOo

"Master, are you alright?"

Lestrade continued to fiddle aimlessly with his food, a piece of over sauced chicken was being smashed rather unappealingly into a bed of rice. Sherlock watched his master nervously. Never before had Lestrade been so distant and quiet, he barely even seemed to notice Sherlock's existence.

"We learned about master and student etiquette today," Sherlock tried unsurely.

"Mm," was the only response.

"I made a friend, I think. His name is Mycroft."

"Mm."

"He gave me lunch."

"Mhmm."

"He cut my arm off too, and then fed to Master Kota while I watched."

"Sounds like quite the day."

"Master," Sherlock complained.

Lestrade finally looked up at him with tired eyes, Sherlock gaped openly. It was the first time his master had looked worried in front of him. Sherlock blinked rapidly.

"I am listening to you, Sherlock," Lestrade assured softly. "Forgive me, it has been a very taxing day."

"Do you want me to go to my room?" Sherlock asked, worried he'd be dismissed.

"No," Lestrade said, getting that weird baffled look he sometimes had when Sherlock said things. "Why would I-? Never mind." Lestrade waved the question away looking exhausted. Sherlock frowned at his master's expression and pushed back from the table.

"Will you show me one of your jarred hearts?" Sherlock asked eagerly. Master Lestrade always liked to show him things, it would no doubt take his mind off whatever was troubling him. In fact the older man smiled at once.

"Which one's have I showed you?" he asked, rising from the table.

"The rancor one, the akk one, and-Master is your arm bleeding?"

Startled, Lestrade looked down at his arm. His sleeve was dyed a deep red from what looked like blood. As he rolled up his sleeve a long cut on his wrist was revealed, covered in fresh and dried blood. The knight sighed heavily and asked that Sherlock fetch the bacta ointment they had been using for his back. Sherlock ran to the medical cabinet only to find it empty.

"Master," Sherlock called uneasily.

"Blast it," Lestrade hissed, seeing his empty cabinet. Sherlock flinched besides him.

Yes, Master Lestrade had never once raised a hand to him. Yes, Master Lestrade was kind and good natured and promised never to beat him. But still Sherlock had used all the medicine for his back and now his master had none for his own injuries, and that had to mean-

A gentle hand plopped down on his head and eased through his curls, effectively cutting off his panicking thoughts. Lestrade had a pondering gaze that Sherlock kind of liked. It made Lestrade look mischievous and playful, ready for a new plan to make a game out of anything.

Lestrade's free hand stroked his beard thoughtfully.

"Come with me, young one."

oOo

Sherlock was pressed against him in fear as a human nurse lead them into one of the many healing rooms.

God, he hadn't meant for Sherlock to be so frightened. He simply wanted the kid to know there was no reason to fear the healers and his own injury seemed like the perfect reason to seek them out. Still as Lestrade sat in an uncomfortable waiting chair, Sherlock crawled into his lap without a second thought. It must have been a horrible fear, Sherlock hated to be soothed in public and would often growl whenever Lestrade tried.

Great, the kid was trembling too.

They weren't bonded yet. He had…fibbed to the council slightly. Sherlock hadn't wanted to allow him into his mind, convinced that Lestrade would seek only to control him, and the young knight had no desire to push the subject. They would bond when the time was right, not before.

Or not at all, given Lestrade's luck.

Sherlock laid his head on Lestrade's shoulder, but refused to look directly at the older man. Lestrade stroked his back gently.

"It is for me, Sherlock. They will not touch you," he assured carefully.

"I don't want to watch you…" the boy's voice trailed away.

"Watch me?" Lestrade prompted.

The door hissed open before Sherlock could answer, Molly walked in with a data pad and a first aid kit. She wore her traditional robes, with a pure silver saber at her hip, and her hair pulled back into a bun that Lestrade secretly liked. She turned to him with a small eye roll.

"Greg," she chided lightly. "I hope this isn't another last minute injury that has become infected to the point of nearly no return."

Lestrade chuckled. "A small cut is all."

"And you couldn't stich it yourself?"

Lestrade looked offended as he shifted Sherlock to roll up his sleeve. "It is on my dominate arm," he explained mockingly. "But it was more of an excuse to see you," he added with a wink.

"Gregory," she sighed heavily, then to Sherlock said brightly, "hello, little one."

"Hello, Master Hooper," Sherlock muttered against Lestrade's chest, his hand clenched tightly in the knight's tunic.

"Sherlock," the young man said soothingly.

"I don't want to look," Sherlock demanded.

"You don't have to look," Lestrade said quietly, "but I wish you would."

Sherlock sniffled. "Why?"

"So you can see that the healers want to help. No one is going to hurt you here."

Molly, blessed Molly, leaned over his arm without a word. Clinically she took his arm in her small hand and used lukewarm water to wash away the dried blood. All under Sherlock's careful eye.

"You will say something if it hurts, won't you Master?" Sherlock ordered stiffly.

"Yes, padawan," the young man said warmly.

"Because you are bigger than she is, Master. You can make her stop if it hurts you," Sherlock reminded him sternly. Molly paused her treatment to look on the little boy with a mixture of pity and confusion. Lestrade felt him stomach kick back slightly.

"And how would I "make her stop", Sherlock?"

Sherlock pondered for a moment. "I don't know. Moriarty used to have anyone who harmed him flogged, but I have never seen you hit anyone…you are quite large though, I'm sure you could take on anyone."

Lestrade visibly faltered and gaped at his padawan for a moment.

"Molly," Lestrade said quietly, gently placing Sherlock on the ground before turning back to his companion. "If you would be so kind, I have several ribs that popped out of place this morning. Mace seemed to be in a rotten mood while we were sparring."

"Gregory," Molly said in warning.

Lestrade threw his shirt of his head and lay down slowly on the floor without a word. Sherlock sat next to him swiftly.

"Open your mind to me, Sherlock," Lestrade instructed.

"You promised," Sherlock whispered pleadingly, "you said I wouldn't have to-"

"My mind is open to you, little guy," Lestrade lulled. "I am just as vulnerable to you as you are to me, it is a two way street. Come now."

Sherlock looked dubious, but Lestrade allowed his mind to touch the boy's as lightly as possible. Sherlock's mind shields were still snapped up, but Lestrade let Sherlock enter his mind silently. The boy could only touch his most recent memories, he was not yet strong enough to go further, but Sherlock could see the fear he felt that day in the presence of his own master, and the frustration at being asked by Yoda, a cherished elder, whom Lestrade could not deny, to speak to him. The padawan's mind shields slipped slowly down.

By the Force, it took everything Lestrade had not to pry into the child's mind right there. To see his horrors, to learn what had caused the boy to tremble at the slightest outburst. Instead he let his emotions flow into Sherlock's mind as they would one day share over a bond.

"You are in pain," Sherlock gasped in surprise. Lestrade nodded.

"My back," Lestrade explained, "is in very poor condition right now. Master Hooper is going to fix it for me."

Lestrade was able to guide Sherlock in a way that would simply allow him to view the pain, they would not share it. Molly ran her hands down his bare back seeking out the ribs professionally, forcing herself to distance her emotions for him and-

Snap.

The first rib was popped back into place.

"Nngh," Lestrade sucked in through gritted teeth.

"Master!" Sherlock cried, his mind's eye flashed with Lestrade's pain. The knight held up a silent palm, ordering Sherlock to remain where he was.

"Watch, feel," Lestrade commanded. "Just wait."

The second and third rib went back in far more smoothly, but the fourth, as he knew it would, caused him to bite his lip in pain. Molly pulled back almost at once.

"Master!" Sherlock said angrily, "you should have made her stop, you shouldn't have let her-"

"Watch," Lestrade said sternly. "You have pulled away from me and cannot see. Look for the pain you saw earlier, the great pain that was in my back."

Sherlock obeyed silently.

"It is gone…" he said unsurely.

"And?" Lestrade encouraged.

"The pain from the treatment?" Sherlock said unsurely. "It is gone too?"

Lestrade nodded slowly and shifted into a sitting position so he could cup Sherlock's cheek. The boy looked at him with a mixture of adoration and concern.

"Jedi are not a violent people, Curly. We do not harm others, and if we do cause discomfort, we try to make a healing pain."

"What if…someone tries to hurt me?" Sherlock asked curiously. "Am I allowed to prevent it?"

"Always, Sherlock," Lestrade said, giving his chin a small squeeze.

"Even from you?"

Lestrade nodded, fighting a feeling of dread. Sherlock must have still felt endangered around Lestrade, still didn't trust him completely.

"But you said you wouldn't hurt me," Sherlock said in confusion.

"Never intentionally," Lestrade promised. "But I will make mistakes, and for those I apologize."

Sherlock bowed his head.

"Master?" Sherlock said finally as Lestrade resat himself in the chair and gave his arm back to Molly. "Is that what it is like to bond? To feel your emotions?"

"No," Lestrade explained tenderly. "You will be able to shield from me, and I you. But there will be times when we share emotions, especially when you are young and cannot shield as well. If your shields are up, I will not break them down."

"Will I be able to break down yours?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"Perhaps, when you are older. It is about trust, Sherlock," Lestrade raised his free arm invitingly, and Sherlock sat next him in the chair.

"Moriarty would break my shields when he wanted information. It hurt a lot," Sherlock said quietly as he leaned into Lestrade's side.

"We needn't speak of a bond now, little one."

"Do you want one?" Sherlock piped up after a moment.

Lestrade hesitated. "Yes, it will make things…easier. But I will not push the issue, we will wait until you feel ready."

Molly finished the bacta rub and wrapped Lestrade's arms in a tight bandage. Her eyes dripped with tears and when Sherlock had begun to turn to a skeletal drawing on the other side of the room she stroke the knight's cheek fondly. Lestrade caught the hand gently in his own and held for a moment.

Their gaze held until Sherlock sighed loudly, indicating he was bored with the room. Lestrade sent him on ahead with an order to prepare for bed if he wanted to see another one of his master's prized specimens. The truth was he wanted a moment with Molly.

If only just one moment.


	3. Chapter 3

The door creaked open.

Lestrade groaned loudly and rolled to his side, grasping desperately for lost sleep.  The door shut just as swiftly as it had opened, but the Jedi knight was no fool.  Sighing, he opened his eyes to face his padawan, who was looking rather guilty.

“I-I…” Sherlock swallowed harshly.

Lestrade lifted his covers for Sherlock to crawl under, as he did whenever the boy had had a nightmare in the past two and a half weeks.  It was only when Sherlock didn’t immediately scramble under and dig his knobby knees and wickedly cold feet into his master’s side that Lestrade sat up with worry.  Sherlock swallowed audibly as Lestrade reached out with the Force for some kind of clue…

Oh.

Oh, Sherlock.

“I had…it was a really bad nightmare this time, and I…”

Peed himself.  Sherlock had wet the bed it seemed.

Lestrade ran a hand over his face exhaustedly.  This was not his life.  Never once had he been trained how to deal with a nightmare induced bed pissing.  How was he meant to comfort Sherlock when the lad couldn’t simply crawl into bed with him? 

Damn it.

Rolling out of bed, Lestrade threw back the covers and went into Sherlock’s room.  Going by the smell it must have been an awful nightmare to have scared Sherlock into voiding himself so much.  The sheets were soaking, Lestrade dreaded checking the boy’s pajamas if the duvet was an indication as to how bad it would be.

“Alright, Sherlock,” Lestrade said tiredly, “let’s get you clean first, and you can stay in my bed until yours is sorted.”

But he turned to an empty door way.

Sherlock had fled.

Blast it.  He hated it when the boy ran from him, positively loathed the sense of immediate dread that followed the realization that Sherlock had vanished.

They needed to bond, this had to stop.  The bond would at least enable the knight to track his pupil.  Lestrade reached out with the Force, perhaps a little more aggressively than necessary, and felt Sherlock’s presences in the wash room.  Lestrade moved swiftly into the small room adjacent to their bathroom.

“Sherlock,” he called gently as he entered the room.  There was a distinct sniveling in the back, but when Lestrade stepped towards the sound there was a small squish beneath his bare feet.  Sherlock’s soiled pajamas rolled under his foot in a disgusting pile of urine and washing liquid.

“Great,” Lestrade huffed.  “Come here, Curly, you shouldn’t be sitting on this floor, it’s filthy.”

“You can go to bed, Master,” Sherlock said in a wet voice.  “I’ll clean it up, you go to bed.”

Lestrade snorted and toed the pile of discard clothes covered in soap and water.  Sherlock seemed to sense his movement and shrank further away from him in the Force, Lestrade frowned.

“Come now, little one.  I’ll clean it,” Lestrade said carefully.  “Let’s get you sorted first and-”

Sherlock whimpered softly.  “I didn’t mean to.  I’m trying…I’m trying to fix it.”

Lestrade shook his head fiercely and strode towards his shivering padawan.  “You don’t have to fix it, Sherlock.  Do you even know how to do the wash?  Let me-”

It happened the instant Lestrade got too close.  Sherlock, remembering that Lestrade had given him permission to defend himself, clawed out in fear.  His nails caught the young knight on the cheek and slashed neatly through the skin, leaving three deep cuts behind.  Lestrade recoiled so quickly he nearly stumbled over Sherlock’s discarded pajamas.

“Leave me alone!” his padawan screamed.  “It was an accident!”

Lestrade knew at once that trying to touch Sherlock had been a horrible mistake.  He had forgotten once again what type of punishment such a crime would have normally been met with.  Chiding himself for such a mistake, he carefully touched his now slashed open cheek delicately.  Sherlock was white as a sheet and trying desperately to shrink into himself.

It hurt.  Not his blooded cheek or his possibly twisted ankle.  It was the fact that Sherlock was still convinced Lestrade would harm him or punish him cruelly for the smallest thing that was breaking the young knight’s heart.  He did not try to touch Sherlock again.

“Come with me,” he coaxed quietly.  “Please, Sherlock.”

Nothing.  The boy refused to move.

He was too tired for this.

Without looking at Sherlock he placed the soiled pajamas in the washing machine and stalked into the child’s bedroom.  He stripped away the duvet, the sheets, and glared daggers at the puddle on the mattress as if he could will it away.  Those followed the pajamas into the machine, along with several scoops of washing powder. 

Even though the lad seriously needed a bath and should have been cleaned at once, Lestrade stripped off his white shirt and threw it at his padawans side.  For whatever reason Sherlock had declined to take an extra pair of pajamas with him and sat naked in the corner.  The boy pulled the shirt over his head silently.

“You’ll be cold,” Sherlock observed quietly as Lestrade sat with his back against the machine.

“I’ll warm up once you have been cleaned and put to bed,” Lestrade said exhaustedly.  “I shall have to make do until then.”

They said nothing, neither quite knowing how to apologize to the other.  Perhaps neither knew how to proceed enough to speak, either way Lestrade dozed off leaning against his washing machine a few minutes into his child’s stoic silence.

He only woke to a hard pressure on his mind shields.

Sherlock was trying to breach them.

“Is there any particular reason you are digging at that memory, Sherlock?” Lestrade said, his voice gruff with sleep.  It was his most guarded section of his mind, even Yoda could not break through it, but Sherlock had somehow gotten through most of his defense.  Though it was evident the boy had looked at nothing else and was simply trying to get at his worst memories to only see if he could.

Sherlock was sitting far closer to him than before, his head nearly in contact with Lestrade’s bicep.  The boy looked at him in awe.

“They fell away,” Sherlock said breathlessly.

“What?” Lestrade said, by habit reaching out to stroke Sherlock’s curls and earning a daring hiss in the process.  He withdrew his hand.

“Your shields,” Sherlock explained at once.  “I didn’t have to break them, or hardly push at all.  It was like…like…”

“Like I trusted you not to go snooping through my head,” Lestrade said in a sharp tone. 

“I didn’t look at anything,” the boy swore.  “I think that’s why you let me through…you knew I wouldn’t.”

Lestrade could feel the headache threatening, from the rejection of a bond.  Sherlock wouldn’t know that’s what he had been doing, Lestrade had been unaware himself until the present moment.  The Force had been guiding Sherlock’s mind into his, but in his fear the boy had pulled away from the bond before it could be permeant.  It severed any chances they would have at one in the process.

A hand was placed over the knight’s heart, shutting down his train of thought as looked up sharply into icy blue eyes.  Sherlock trembled, but maintained his gaze.

“You’re sad,” Sherlock said carefully.  “Miserable, actually.”

He didn’t dare tell the boy that he had rejected his master.  Instead, taking it as permission to once again soothe his padawan, Lestrade cupped the back of the boy’s head.  His thumb rested on the center of Sherlock’s forehead.

“You fear me, Sherlock.  I do not know how to help you see that I will not hurt you,” Lestrade said bitterly.  “I am failing.”

Something stirred in his heart, but he dismissed at as shame.

“I hurt you,” Sherlock said with guilt, staring at the cuts across his master’s face.

“You are not to blame,” Lestrade said gently as he felt Sherlock’s closeness to tears.  The boy’s inner mind sniffled noisily, ready to cry aloud once more.

_I trust you, Master.  But I don’t know how to tell you.  I’m scared of your rejection, of your dismissal, and of your kindness.  I do not know how to play when you seek it, I do not know how to smile as you do.  Yours touches your eyes…I can’t make mind do that.  I try for you, but you see that it does not always work, and it hurts you.  When I come home from class and you want to go for walks, I want to go too.  But I do not like it when people look at you as if…as if you have done something horrible, and so I stay home.  I don’t like it.  I don’t like it when you’re gone.  I don’t even like the night time because you can’t protect me like you do in the day.  But I like that you try… But forgive me, Master.  I can’t tell you this, because I do not know how to like._

Lestrade blinked down at the child, who was falling against his chest in exhaustion as the final fragments of their impossible bond formed.  Sherlock’s head thudded against his shoulder as Lestrade pulled him closer.  He cried without refraining as he buried his face into Sherlock’s neck. 

_My little one._

oOo

“Don’t touch that!”

Sherlock withdrew his hand at once as his um…grandmaster…pulled the saber away angrily.

Master Lestrade baulked behind him, clearly on edge.  He took Sherlock’s shoulder tightly and pulled the boy back away from the angry man, glowering as he did so.  He placed an old training saber in Sherlock’s hand, reminding the boy to keep his guard up in the process.  Sherlock nodded dutifully.

They hadn’t spoken about the nightmare since it had happened two days ago.  Sherlock had gone to sleep in Lestrade’s room and refused to let the older man out of his sights for long periods of time.  Sherlock had told Lestrade that the nightmare had been of his torture at the hands of Moriarty if Sherlock declined to come home.  His master had replied with a dark, “Let him try”.

“Can’t I use your saber, Master?” Sherlock piped up quickly.  “I like yours better than the training ones.”

“Mine is better balanced,” Lestrade explained fondly.  “But Master Frasier thinks it best if you use a training one for this exercise.”

Master Frasier glared at Sherlock’s master intensely with a stern frown across his face.  “What happened to your cheek, boy?”

Sherlock cringed up at his teacher as Lestrade trailed a soft hand over his now bandaged cheek.  Lestrade hadn’t fussed over his wound or even asked for Sherlock’s apology.  Instead the knight simply bandaged Sherlock’s whole head as an act of revenge, leaving only the child’s mouth, nose, and eyebrows free of the medical tape.  Molly had been furious at their waste of medical supplies, but when Sherlock managed to tape Lestrade’s ankles together without his notice, she had giggled.

“A training accident with Mace,” Lestrade brushed the question away with a lazy way of the hand.  Sherlock felt the softest of pressures across their newly formed bond telling him to keep silent about the matter.  Sherlock gave his affirmative in a similar matter.

The bond was…interesting.  He could not always feel Lestrade’s emotions, the older man was more guarded than Sherlock had suspected.  Lestrade never pushed himself into Sherlock’s mind or tried to read the padawan’s thoughts as Moriarty did, he only asked if he was alright periodically.  But Sherlock’s favorite thing of the bond, was Lestrade always allowed Sherlock to his intent.  Sherlock was aware at all times what Lestrade’s end goal was and was amazed by how often his teacher achieved it.  A very clever trick had gotten the tiny padawan to eat a mysterious green vegetable only last night, despite knowing Lestrade’s evil purpose the whole time.

 Master Frasier nodded stiffly and began prepping training droids for battle.  Sherlock had excelled in his saber studies, he didn’t have the heart to tell his master it was because Moriarty had forced him to spar the senior students since he was six.  It usually upset Lestrade when he spoke of such things.

Lestrade secretly passed Sherlock his light saber when the senior master’s back was turned.  Sherlock usually practiced with it anyway, and Lestrade had spoken to Master Yoda about receiving his own.  The young padawan prayed it was blue.  Not because he didn’t respect his master’s own green saber, but because blue was the polar opposite of red.  Jedi blue would out shine Sith red any day.

“Master,” Sherlock said slowly, “when will-”

Lestrade stilled him with a small hand movement.

_Not in front of Master Frasier._

_I just wanted know when I would receive my own light saber…_

_I know, Curly, but…Master Frasier would…object if he were to find out before it had been issued._

Hurt that someone was once again rejecting something to make his training easier, Sherlock pulled away from Lestrade and took mid-court.  He could feel Lestrade’s frustration over their bond, but knew it was directed at the young knight’s own inability to comfort.  Sherlock reached out to him carefully, applying a comforting weight against the older man’s mind shields.

“And now a blinder,” Master Frasier said excitedly as he placed the blinder helmet, without warning, on Sherlock’s head. 

Memories of old flooded the boy too quickly and by force of habit his mind cried out for his master, forgetting the man could now hear him.  The panic plea for mercy and sight was answered when Lestrade yanked it off his head.  Sherlock wasn’t touched, Lestrade was learning it wasn’t always a good idea to touch the padawan when he was upset.  However, Lestrade did press the boy lightly against his own stomach, leaving Sherlock an escape should he need one.

“Master,” Lestrade said heatedly, “you must be more careful.  You frightened him.”

“Nonsense,” the elder said with a wave of the hand.  “He is Force sensitive, he can see-”

Lestrade shook his head angrily.  “He can’t, he was never taught how to reach out with the Force.  He only ever learned how to fight.”

The master gaped.  “He can deduce where a man has been by the mud on their shoes,” he snapped.

“It isn’t the Force,” Lestrade growled back.  “It is because he is intelligent.”

Sherlock hated when people talked over his head about him.  Slowly he raised his eyes to Lestrade’s until the older man gazed down at him softly.  Sherlock liked his master’s eyes.  They were brown like Moriarty’s but infinitely more kind and gentle, they always seemed to soften when Sherlock was the object of their gaze.

“Will you teach me, Master?” Sherlock said bravely.

There.  They did the softening thing again.

Lestrade gingerly took the helmet out of his master’s grip, Sherlock noticed how careful Lestrade was not brush hands with the hateful man and grimaced at his master’s angry gaze.  Lestrade called for him gently over their bond and led him away from Master Frasier.  When they were a respectable distance away Lestrade put the helmet over his own silver head and beckoned Sherlock closer.

“Open yourself to me,” Lestrade said carefully, trying not sound demanding.

Sherlock lowered his shields slightly and let Lestrade push his thoughts into his mind.  Sherlock was surprised to find that Lestrade could see as clearly as if the helmet were not there.  Lestrade had his eyes trained on Sherlock even through the helmets steal block.

“Open yourself to the Force now, little guy.  Close your eyes,” he ordered softly.

“Yes, Master,” Sherlock said obediently.

Sherlock felt his mind being opened slightly further by his master’s gently prodding and through the lid of his eyes Sherlock could make out Lestrade’s faint outline.

“Feel how I am manipulating the Force, Sherlock.  Try to do the same as best you can.”

Lestrade’s outline began to turn into his blurred form.  Sherlock scrunched his brow in concentration and pushed out with the Force.  The blurred form became his master, Sherlock gasped at once and stepped back. 

“I did it,” Sherlock breathed.

“Yes,” Lestrade said proudly through his helmet.

As both Jedi rose to return to Sherlock’s grandmaster, the old man snatched Lestrade’s wrist as he made to remove the helmet.  Sherlock felt hatred build in his stomach as Lestrade clenched his teeth together.

“Perhaps another demonstration for the boy,” the older man said coldly.

“Master,” Lestrade said in equal frost, “I’d thank you to remember the last time you tried to use me to demonstrate.”

“Apprentice, I think your memory of that event is fuzzy.  Step into the ring, helmet on please.”

Sherlock felt Lestrade’s anger flash across their bong as he pulled the helmet from his head in defiance.  With a gentle nudge he pushed Sherlock towards the door.  “Go home, Curly.  I will follow shortly.”

“But I-“

“Please, Sherlock.  It’s not something I wish to discuss.”

It was the last thing his master told him before carefully pushing him out the door.

Sherlock later noted his master black eye and bloody lip were not something he wished to discuss either.


	4. Chapter 4

“He hasn’t taken the damned thing off all week.”

Qui Gon raised his eyes to his friend in surprise of the compliant.  Gregory had his chin in his hand and was staring distractedly out the window of their transport.  In his distress, Greg had forgotten to inform Qui Gon who “he” and what the “damned thing” were.  Though Qui Gon had a good idea on who the subject of Greggy’s compliant was about.  Still he raised a cool eyebrow, prompting his friend into speech.

“The blinder helmet,” Gregory said with an annoyed huff, “Sherlock refuses to take it off until he has mastered the art of seeing without eyes.”

With an inward chuckle Qui Gon mused quietly.  “He may never take it off if you are the one teaching him,” he said teasingly, as old friends often did.

“I passed that test before you did, Jinn,” Greg said snidely. 

“Of course, my friend,” Qui Gon replied easily.  “One often will pass a test before another, when one’s name is called first.”

Greg huffed in playful annoyance and shook his silver head, Qui Gon noticed his usually gelled hair feel into his eyes.  With a small growl Greg pushed it back, revealing tired brown eyes as he did.  It was one of the few times Greg showed Qui Gon his tired side.  The knight was always composed and rarely ever showed his weaknesses to anyone, only those closest to him knew the poor man’s secrets that tended to weigh him down.

“Where is Sherlock now,” Qui Gon asked, keeping a close eye on the road.  Greg loved to pilot ships and had always been a natural flyer.  Still the young man had only one hand on the wheel and half a mind on the road, Qui Gon silently switched the controls to his side and took the wheel.  Greg growled.

“I was finally starting to relax,” Greggy objected shortly.

Qui Gon, unfooled by his oldest friend’s assurance of calm, gripped him tightly around the wrist with his free hand.  A soothing pressure of the Force bled through his palm and into Greg’s body.  A bond they had formed quite accidentally as children followed them into their adulthood and enabled Qui Gon to pacify the restless man next to him.  “Peace, brother,” he said steadily.  “When Sherlock returns to your guardianship tonight, perhaps you should help him with his new saber.  I have seen him struggling with the temples trainers.”

Greg clenched his jaw tightly and looked out the side window.  “Mace has denied my request to take Sherlock to Ilium.  The council, it seems, does not want Sherlock anywhere they cannot monitor him closely.  Certainly not on a planet so sacred to the Jedi.”

It pained him.  Qui Gon could see the hurt in Greg’s eyes as he told the story of Mace’s denial, Mace Windu who had been an idol to Greg but had never realized it.  Mace Windu who had inspired Greg’s long nights of training to become an equal swordsman.  Mace Windu, now denying his little brother’s request because he did not trust the child Greg was beginning to love as his own.

“There are spare parts, old Jedi sabers of knights and masters long since passed I may have access too,” Qui Gon said….delicately.

Greggy perked slightly.  “Jinn, you are in line to be one of the youngest masters in history.  I dare not take that away from you because I am having trouble with the council.”

Qui Gon waved a small hand in dismissal.

“My friend, when has the council and I ever seen eye to eye.  My rebellion is expected, to do otherwise at this point may send the council into shock, and I fear I will not be granted my title.  Without some form of trouble on my part they may suspect I am not me.”

Greg’s brief perk became a full blown impish grin as he snapped the controls back to his side and forced the throttle open further.  “Who am I to disagree with a future master of the temple,” he said with a mock bow.

Qui Gon rather wished his friend would focus more on the road, and less on his gallous humor. 

oOo

 

Sherlock was ignoring the lightsaber pieces Qui Gon had brought all together.

The brat was shifting eagerly through the small pile crystals, his blinder helmet set to the side as he had elected to examine each colored crystal closely.  Colors, Sherlock wasn’t even interested in the powered crystals, he wanted the colors.  Qui had only been able to bring an assortment of green and gold to them, a fact which seemed to be dropping Sherlock’s shoulders with every second.  The boy seemed to be trying to bury his disappointment underneath his mind shield, but Lestrade had sensed the anguish behind the stony face.

“Sherlock,” he said softly, even still the boy started.  “Why don’t you focus on your hilt with the diagram I gave you, and I will go in search of more crystals.”

The boy shook his head carefully.  “I need to find it on my own, Master.  It is to be my saber, I must do this myself.”

“You do not like any of the crystals here, padawan,” Lestrade said gently.

“But,” Sherlock objected swiftly, “you said I could tell you when I disagreed, correct?”

“Yes, Sherlock,” Lestrade said amused.  Sherlock had disagreed with him a totally of seventeen times that day without feeling the need to question his right before.

“I am supposed to find my own crystal,” Sherlock firmly.  “I feel as though I am meant to search for it myself.”

The boy was right.  Most padawans, under their master’s guardianship, traveled to Ilium, the only planet known to grow the proper crystals.  The student needed to find their crystal themselves in a cave designed to make the child face their worst fear.  Sherlock had been denied that right, and Lestrade had no heart to tell him.

“Curly,” Lestrade said gingerly, “perhaps we shall continue this later, yeah?  I have an errand to run for Master Windu, and if you wire that thing wrong you will blow the temple off the map.”  It was a poor excuse of a joke, and Lestrade could see disappointment in Sherlock’s eyes.  The boy fingered his helmet and nodded before pulling it back over his eyes.

“Will you set up the blaster ball, so I can practice?” Sherlock asked.  Lestrade was grateful for the eager tone that found its way back into Sherlock’s voice.

“Stars, Sherlock.  In my living room?  What if you miss?” Lestrade teased.

“I never miss, Master,” the bratling said impatiently.  “I have practiced for _days_.”

With a soft sigh and a loud eye roll, Lestrade obeyed his padawan’s wishes and passed the boy his lightsaber.  “Not a toy,” Lestrade reminded Sherlock as the boy’s finger’s closed around the hilt.

“Yes, I know,” Sherlock said irritably.

“I’m sure you do,” Lestrade said sadly, realizing as he did that Sherlock sadness would continue so long as his saber was not blue.

oOo

Sherlock really was quite good.

Master Lestrade had been foolish to worry, Sherlock was very advanced for his age even with a blinder helmet.  He had also set the blaster ball to a higher setting after his master had left.  Not to say Master Lestrade was a fool, not even a little. Sherlock had once seen his teacher talking to Master Jinn while deflecting all blasts from the ball on its highest setting without breaking his concentration on Master Jinn.  Jedi did not feel jealousy…but Sherlock had a very serious desire to duplicate such a technic before his next life day.

Sherlock deflected all shots with mild ease.  In truth he couldn’t quite see all the way through his helmet like Master Lestrade could, but he could sense things.  People were especially bright in the Force, Sherlock had discovered this from his perch on the roof.  He could pick out his master with ease.  Master Lestrade had a very large presence in the Force and was unusually bright.  Everyone else seemed to blur together in a dull aura.

The door behind him hissed open and slammed close.  Sherlock, attuned to the Force noted a very large presence that was unusually bright.   He grinned through his helmet.

“See, Master, not a single shot missed,” he said snidely.

“You should not speak to your master that way, Sherlock,” a familiar voice chided.  “It is unbecoming.”

“Mycroft?” Sherlock said unsurely, probing outward with the Force.  Mycroft’s signature was so close to Lestrade Sherlock had missed the small details.  He frowned.

“Why are you wearing a blinder?” Mycroft asked surprised.

“Practice,” Sherlock said shyly.  “I’m behind the other padawans.”

Mycroft reached forward and delicately removed the blinder helmet.  Sherlock’s head shook as sweat dripped down into his eyes.  Mycroft examined the sticky helmet with distain, was frowning down at the younger padawan.  Sherlock scowled slightly.

“And the saber pieces in your living space?”

“Master Lestrade is helping me construct my own,” Sherlock said proudly.  “He says I am ready for my own.”

Mycroft opened his mouth for a second, clearly ready to say something.  It was the same expression that befell him whenever he was about to correct Sherlock on something.  Whatever it had been, something crossed Mycroft’s face and he remained silent.

“It does not look as though you have started it, small one,” Mycroft said gently.

“I…I could not find a crystal I liked,” Sherlock admitted.

“Sherlock, the crystals you have here feel full of power,” Mycroft said sternly.

“It is not the power crystals, I have found one of those,” Sherlock said, passing Mycroft the crystal he had selected from the pile after Master had gone.  “It is the colors, I-”

“Colors have nothing to do with…” Mycroft began, sounding annoyed.

“I know,” Sherlock blushed.

“Gold is a very unique color, Sherlock.  It suits you,” Mycroft said encouragingly.

Sherlock shook his head swiftly.  Blue was the color he most desire, he wanted blue, his saber had to be blue.  Moriarty had hated blue.  Mycroft wouldn’t understand, but the young padawan had to have-

A small clicking noise pulled Sherlock from his thoughts.  Mycroft began unscrewing his saber hilt.  Sherlock noted a long, jagged crack going from Mycroft’s activation button to the bottom of the saber.  A small hiss emitted from the container as Mycroft tipped the light blue crystal into his palm. 

“There was an incident on our last mission, my saber was damaged beyond repair.  Master Dooku is convinced I must start with a new one from scratch,” Mycroft explained.  “A new crystal is required, so if you would like.”  He held out the crystal to the younger boy.

Sherlock stared at the blue crystal in awe.  He had never seen Mycroft’s saber activated, he did not know what shade of blue the crystal would be, but the Force called out from it.  Sherlock reached out to touch it gingerly.

“Really, Mycroft?”

 “Take it, Sherlock.  It’s yours.”

Sherlock felt the Force flow through his crystal like a waterfall, the simmering blue power source seemed to glow with warmth in the tiny palm.  As though it too sensed it had a new master.  Sherlock closed his fingers around it tightly and motioned for Mycroft to come see the pieces he had secretly selected for his hilt. 

The two boys sat for over an hour discussing the benefits of each metal, grip, and crystal chamber until Lestrade came back.  Mycroft had encouraged the same metal used in Lestrade’s hilt as a way of honoring the older man and because Sherlock had grown used to the familiar hilt.

Sherlock spent the rest of his afternoon deep in thought with Lestrade as he constructed his own hilt with Lestrade’s melt.  Though he did add Mycroft’s old lightsaber bottom to his new hilt.

Mycroft said teachers should be honored while making a saber hilt after all.


End file.
